


Pitch Invaders

by savlylee



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guns, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Not Ashamed, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Poor Cristiano, Real Madrid CF, Sad, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, and tears, could be slash, fans take advantage, maybe not, ok im stopping, seriously, there's blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-02-23 23:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13200816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savlylee/pseuds/savlylee
Summary: What happens to Cristiano Ronaldo when two fans run onto the pitch? Nothing good.Could be read as slash.





	1. Like the Moon in the Arms of the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry for any spelling/grammar errors. There shouldn't be any, but in case I missed something, please let me know. That being said, this is my first post on this site, and I'm using this as a building block for my writing. So, please, I welcome criticism! :)

Cristiano Ronaldo has been receiving numerous death threats lately which have captured his agent’s attention. Now, he is expected to have several bodyguards with him at all times. When he goes to training, when he visits his mother, when he takes Junior to school; wherever he goes, whatever he does, security personnel need to be present.

It's only eight matches later, when he's at Camp Nou, that it happens.

He has just scored another goal for Real Madrid, setting the score to 2-1. Barcelona's fans are fuming in the stands while Real Madrid rejoices. Members of the crowd boo and whistle as the forward leaps high into the air to do his famous celebration. Sergio Ramos claps him on the shoulder as the players begin the trek back to their starting positions. Ronaldo wipes the sweat from his forehead with the hem of his jersey and bends down to tie the laces of his boot.

Just as the famous number 7 stands and turns around to face the field, two fans spring from the stands—the only section along the wall where there seems to be no security—and approach him from behind. With the player's back to them, the two escapees pounce. One of them, wearing the white of a Madrid jersey, forcibly shoves Cristiano to the ground. The other, wearing Barcelona blue, draws his leg back to kick the fallen player in the face.  
Momentarily stunned, Ronaldo can only watch, defenseless as another silver football boot rushes toward his face, fracturing his nose and turning his vision black. There's a collective gasp from the crowd as millions of people behold this horrific act of violence. Cristiano will later discover the eye placed behind the goal, broadcasting his assault across the planet.

While the stadium's security team and Ronaldo's bodyguards are sprinting onto the field, the rest of the players remain frozen from shock. Until Sergio Ramos abruptly surges forth toward the attackers; but he's too far away, it'll take too long to reach the troubled player. Nevertheless, his urgency drives several other footballers forward until there's a mob of angry athletes stampeding toward the corner of the field. Stegen, Barcelona's goalkeeper, remains stagnant at the goal—although his expression is one of shock—and one of his teammates shouts at him from farther down the field.

In the meantime, Cristiano has somewhat regained consciousness and the two fans land blow after blow to the footballer's sides and back as he shakily gets to his hands and knees. Their spiked cleats break the skin, and blood rises through the back of his white jersey. Just as Ronaldo's bodyguards arrive at the scene, the fan wearing Real Madrid's colors pulls out a handgun from his waistband. The stadium erupts in chaos as the man hauls Cristiano to his feet and aims the weapon at the side of his head. His face is drenched in blood from a deep gash at his temple. It flows heavily from his no-doubt broken nose, and his left eye is almost swollen shut. The player looks to be in a state of semi-consciousness as he sways precariously on trembling legs.

The other assailant steps away in sudden terror. Several security members detain him and guide him off the pitch. Most of the fans above are fleeing the stadium in a frenzy, and the remaining footballers are being escorted out by security. Outside, police sirens grow louder.  
Sergio Ramos refuses to leave the stadium and fights security until they yield. There are bigger fish to fry. One of Ronaldo's bodyguards risks communicating with the attacker, but the man shakes his head vehemently and shouts: He deserves this! At this exclamation, Sergio's face becomes red in anger, but he bites his tongue out of fear of setting the man off and shooting his best friend.

Put the gun down, and we can talk, okay, someone says.

The man observes them all critically before his dull brown eyes land on Sergio. The captain shifts uneasily beneath his intense gaze. _You_ , the man spits with disdain.  
Sergio's eyes widen before he pokes a finger at the number four on his chest, _Me_?  
The man slowly nods, and it sends a shiver down Ramos's spine. How can you be friends with this scum? the man asks. He emphasizes his point by jamming the barrel of the gun into Ronaldo's temple harshly, making the player's head tilt to the side awkwardly. Sergio gulps audibly before glancing at his friend's head bodyguard, Emmanuel. Emmanuel is already looking at him and gives a subtle nod. Ramos exhales shakily, returns his attention to the man holding his friend hostage and responds: You don't think I should be?

The man laughs cruelly.  
He doesn't deserve friends, he says as his devoid eyes turn to the limp form in his arms. The look in his eyes turns Sergio's blood to ice, and his mind scrambles to get his attention off of Cristiano. Everyone deserves to have a friend, the words rush out of his mouth, and he's alarmed by how grateful he feels when those cold, brown eyes rotate toward him.

Not this disgrace, says the man.

A gunshot echoes throughout the stadium, and everything slows down as Ronaldo slumps to the ground. Sergio rushes forward, uncaring of the consequences. All he knows is that he has to get to Cristiano.  
It's as if he's moving through water. He wasn't _that_ far away from them, was he? The boneless way Cristiano lays as if he's squashed into the astroturf burns at Sergio's eyes until everything looks blurred. It's through metaphorical water that he hears the scramble as several security guards rush by him. Through the water that he feels the stuttering chest beneath his quaking fingers; feels the warmth of skin, not blood.

Time speeds back up, and the realization hits Sergio like a blow to the gut. He didn't get shot. He's going to live.

Beside him, Emmanuel has the man secured to the ground. Blood seeps through the man's hands as he holds his stomach, and he looks over at Ronaldo before whispering: You have... humiliated Madrid. The injured footballer watches with glassy eyes—his left pupil much larger than the right—as the man crumples to the floor. Sergio tenderly traps Cristiano's face with both hands and says softly, Cris, hey. Hey, you still with me, buddy? It's okay. You're okay. These words are to assure himself just as much as his teammate, who looks around disoriented. S’rge? a single tear escapes the corner of Cristiano's eye.

The two footballers ride together to the nearest hospital in the back of an ambulance. Cristiano's hand is held tightly in Sergio's as EMTs ripple around them like a pond disturbed by stones. When they arrive at the hospital, the rest of their teammates and those of Barcelona are already waiting. Sergio watches, transfixed as his best friend gets taken down the hall and into the ER. His teammates almost immediately swarm him with questions.

He's okay. He's okay. He's okay... he repeats to himself as Iker draws him into his strong arms. He is okay, Sergio. Cris is strong. He will get through this, Iker pulls back to look him in the eyes. Sergio sighs before looking around at his team. Physically, he replies. When several eyebrows furrow in response, he runs a hand down his face in distress. The guy that pulled the gun... He said some things about him and Cris was—I don't know whether he could understand the guy or not—he was pretty disoriented—but if he did... he lets his words hang in the air. It's only when Pepe gently squeezes his shoulder that Sergio realizes he's been pacing frantically.

Easy. _Tranquilo_. Why don't you take a seat, Serge? And it's the seriousness coming from Pepe that compels him to comply. He sits down on one of the hard plastic chairs lying around in the waiting room. Pepe and Kaká sit beside him, but it's Marcelo who speaks next: Are you up to telling us what happened? It takes Sergio an embarrassingly long time to understand what he's asking, but he nods somberly and recounts everything from the past few hours. When finished, both Real Madrid and the various players from Barcelona—who've been standing off to the side, respectfully—are left gaping in horror.

He hasn't humiliated Madrid! He's the best thing we've seen in years! How dare that psychotic _fuck_ say that about him! Pepe's declaration slices through the heavy silence like a battle ax, cleaving everything in its path. Unexpectedly, it's Neymar who places a consoling hand on Pepe's elbow.

It's countless hours later when Barcelona and many members of Real Madrid have gone, leaving their condolences, that a doctor finally emerges with Ronaldo's name on his lips. The only players left are Sergio, Iker, Marcelo, Pepe, Fábio, and Kaká and they all swarm around the doctor instantly, eager to hear if their friend is okay.

Calm down, gentlemen, calm down. Mr. Ronaldo is going to be alright, he reassures the jumpy teammates when they start to rise in volume. Sergio instantly soothes the anxious players.

Mr. Ronaldo has several cracked and broken ribs as well as dozens of lacerations on his back. His right shoulder is dislocated and relocated. These, however, should heal in due time; what we should truly worry about is the severe concussion he has. We've put a few stitches in the gash on his temple, and Emmanuel has informed me of the multiple blows to the head he'd sustained. We've already taken him back for a CT scan, and the results show he has no further damage to his brain. Although, due to the severity of the concussion, he may experience some slight amnesia. I thought it wise to warn you, just in case. Other than that, he is resting now, but you may see him if you wish. I will be in to check on him every hour or so and wake him up.

With that, the doctor smiles and leads them to Cristiano's room, where Emmanuel stands vigil outside. He gravely nods as they approach. Fábio, Marcelo, Pepe, and Kaká all decide to let Sergio see him first, and Iker's about to jump out of his skin, so they know there's no stopping him.

Cristiano's natural bronze skin is now pale and clammy. Tubes are running all over his body, and there's a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. His entire torso resembles a mummy, and on his right shoulder is a dark blue sling. There are _many_ stitches in the gash on his temple, not a _few_. His left eye is still swollen shut, and now there's tape across his nose, but at least his face has been wiped free of blood.  
_You're_ supposed to be sleeping, the doctor suddenly speaks up from the doorway. His voice is stern, but his expression is amused. Sergio blinks in confusion before he notices Cristiano's eyes—just his right eye, really—is open and staring right at him. It looks different, though. Not including the drastically large pupil.  
But before Sergio can try to figure out why, Cristiano looks away when Iker rushes over to his side, cooing: Hey, Cris. How're you feeling? Cristiano looks lost and groggy as he squints up at the goalkeeper. His voice is ragged when he finally answers, Um, I... I don't... What happened?

Iker and Sergio spare each other a glance before Sergio tentatively goes to stand beside the wounded footballer. Out of his periphery, he sees Iker fill a plastic cup with water from the sink across the room. Ramos's mocha-colored eyes trace his best friend's broken body sadly, wishing; regretting. Eventually, his gaze settles on Cristiano's, and it breaks his heart to see him so concerned—not for himself, but for Sergio; for the team. Iker hands the cup over to their teammate. Sergio watches as his fingers carefully wrap around the clear plastic and weakly raise the cup to his swollen lips. He waits until after he's finished drinking to unclench his fists. _How long had he been digging crescent-shaped indents into his palms for?_ Sergio wonders. He flexes his fingers.  
You were attacked on the pitch. Sergio mentally cringes; it's like word vomit.

He watches as Cristiano furrows his eyebrows and pulls his swelled bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it with a hiss of pain. He watches as the wound begins to bleed once again. He watches as his friend's pink tongue pokes out to catch the red droplets.  
Sergio promptly averts his gaze to the floor at his feet.

Cristiano abruptly throws himself off of the hospital bed. Landing on wobbly legs, he nearly collapses before Iker and Sergio are there to catch him. What the-! Iker doesn't get to finish before Cristiano's hunched over, emptying his stomach into the small trash bin beside the bed. They hold him steady until there's nothing left for him to throw up, then carefully get him back into the bed. I-I remember now, Cristiano's helpless whisper pierces their hearts.  
I'm a disgrace, his voice cracks and Sergio can't take it anymore. He delicately folds the hurt footballer in his arms and places a supportive hand on the back of his head. He doesn't say anything when Iker pats him softly on the back before exiting the room; he doesn't move when he feels the wetness against his neck or the quivering of the body pressed up against his.

Shh. You're not a disgrace, Cris. Real Madrid is so blessed to have you, his voice is like warm laundry, just like his hugs, and Cristiano buries himself in it.  
The choked-off sob that escapes Ronaldo's lips causes Sergio's eyes to grow hot. I don't... deserve you, he gasps between breaths. The captain's arms tighten their hold on him before he releases him to look into his liquid brown eye. It's all red and puffy, and tears stream endlessly down his bruised face. His lip is still bleeding from earlier. His fingers itch to wipe it away, but he knows that's equivalent to scooping water out of a sinking boat with a spoon. There's no wiping away Cristiano's pain.

You deserve more than me, Sergio whispers with finality, So much more. Cristiano's face crumples, and Sergio once again pulls the forward into him. Cris just limply surrenders to his embrace, and he kisses the crown of his head, mumbling comforting notes into his hair.

They sit like that until Cristiano's hiccuping cries turn into sniffles and he falls asleep. Even then, Sergio doesn't leave his side. He doesn't let go of his hand. Not even when his teammates enter the room or when the doctor comes in to wake Cristiano up to monitor his concussion.

And Cristiano dreams on, like the moon in the arms of the sky.

* * *

 

 So, sorta happy ending.

Um, I don't know if I should leave it like this or continue. So, if you have a preference, I guess let me know?

Phew, thanks.

(Kinda nervous, hehe)


	2. Oily Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lionel Messi's P.O.V. of what went down that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, I finished chapter three before chapter two?? Weird right?  
> Well, that just means I have two chapters to post ;)

 

It's stopped raining but the grass is still wet, and his dark bangs hang limply in front of his eyes. Lionel Messi watches through the soggy locks, peeved, as Cristiano Ronaldo scores yet another goal for Real Madrid. This whole match has been Hell for him; he just can't seem to sink the stupid ball into the net. Messi rolls his eyes as Ronaldo hulks out in the corner.

Cristiano Ronaldo, the pain in his ass. Don't get him wrong, he respects the guy, but sometimes he really gets on his nerves. Lionel turns on his heel and marches back into position, prepared to up his game. He is going to score.

 

The sudden silence ringing through the stadium perplexes the striker. Messi furrows his eyebrows when several of his teammates openly gape with horror at something behind him.

 

Holy _shit_ , Piqué yells.

 

Lionel's head whips around just in time to see two fans dive on his rival in a display of blue and white fury. His feet remain anchored to the ground as the attackers land kick after kick to the stunned footballer's face. Can only watch in disbelief as Cristiano struggles to his hands and knees while cleated boots rain down on his unprotected body. Can only watch as Ronaldo gets pulled under waves of assault like a ship unruddered in a shoreless sea.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see people running toward the commotion, and his feet surge forward of their own volition. Lionel's eyes remain locked on the intense amount of pain he can see in Cristiano's eyes, the scarlet rivulets running down his face, the red blossoming underneath the white of his jersey like a deadly flower, its poisonous vines slithering down his sides. _It shouldn't look like that_ , Lionel's mind is whirring. _Real Madrid doesn't wear red_.

 

It's still going. It's still going, and everyone's so far away, and the closest person is just standing-

_Wait, why is Stegen just standing there?_

 

Marc, what are you _doing_?! he screams. The goalkeeper doesn't hear him, or he does and decides not to pay him any attention; either way, Lionel is beyond terrified.

 

He can see Cristiano's head bodyguard pull up short about ten meters away from it all, and his breath hitches in his throat as he notices the fan in white pull out a handgun from his waistband. The man then drags his captive to his feet and points the barrel at his temple.

Lionel can hear the fans shrieking from the stands as they recklessly push forward toward the exits. Half of the security team are switching their priorities toward getting the remaining footballers out of the stadium, including the one currently trying to shepherd him away from the growing mass of anarchy. When he spots Sergio Ramos pushing past security with a determination similar to when he's defending the goal, Lionel yields to the persistent hands shoving against his chest telling him to retreat. _Ramos has it covered_ , he thinks.

 

Neymar is right behind him as he exits the stadium. It's his voice that he hears last before the outcries of thousands of people reach his ears and drown out his senses. His ears are ringing, and flashing lights assault his sight. Police vehicles are fortifying the front entrance, their colors blinding in their purpose. Children are crying; people are yelling and calling out for their loved ones who were separated in the commotion. There's a pressing hand on his back, guiding him through the swarm of paparazzi and police alike. Luis Suárez appears over his shoulder, expression spooked. He locks eyes with him and asks: You going to meet everyone there?

 

Before he can figure out where ' _there_ ' is, Neymar interrupts from beside him. We'll be there, he says. Lionel isn't sure whether it's the cold steel in his voice or the burning anger behind his eyes, but something about the way the Brazilian says it forces him to believe that Cristiano will be okay. If Neymar is that determined, then he'll be there, too.

 

It turns out being there is the only thing he's capable of now. The duration of the ride to the hospital is spent with him in a daze, staring dumbly out the back window. No one says anything, the circumstances too stifling to strike up a conversation.

In the time it takes them to drive to the hospital where Pepe claimed the Madridistas have been waiting, Lionel still hasn't turned his scrutinizing gaze from the window. It had started to rain on the ride over, and his only fleeting thought had been: _The sky is crying now, too._

His mamá had always said the heavens would open in times of grief—that's why it usually rains at funerals—and Lionel is not going to finish that thought.

 

It's after he gets out of the car in the blanket of rain that he understands. _That could've been me_ , he considers, and almost immediately after he thinks it, he hates himself. Cristiano is hurt physically, and most likely mentally, and he can only think of himself. He can only think of all the fans who have run onto the pitch to see him. Can only wonder how a hater ( _two_ haters) could've done the same thing. To anyone. Not just him or Cristiano. Any of his teammates or the players of Real Madrid could've been attacked today. With a handgun, nonetheless.

 

He's heard the rumors about Ronaldo's new security contract; how he has hired protection against threats that he's been receiving. Lionel understands, he gets hate mail, too. There are a lot of people who have something to say to him. He only reads the fanmail. What's the point in reading something born from biased hostility? Rhetorical. There _is_ no point.

He's received threats before and yet he's never had to hire his own security team. So how dangerous does that make the threats Ronaldo's been receiving? Rhetorical. Dangerous enough that two angry fans _acted_ on them.

 

Lionel shivers. His teammates are interrogating Ramos over by the door while he squats against the far wall. He can see Neymar comforting Pepe when he starts to raise his voice, shouting about the things Cristiano's attacker had said about him; that he humiliated Madrid.

Lionel's eyebrows draw together in bewilderment. _How could one of the greatest footballers of all time humiliate his own team?_

 

_Does he humiliate_ his _team?_ he wonders.

 

_No_ , he reasons. He doesn't humiliate Barcelona just like Cristiano doesn't humiliate Madrid. They're both experts at their jobs, the only humiliating thing about them is how effortlessly they conquer other players, teams even.

 

What he really wants to know is how did the man manage to smuggle a firearm into Camp Nou? With the heavy security patrolling the entrances, and Ronaldo's personal security team? This lunatic had somehow not only snuck a gun into one of the world's most popular stadiums but waltzed past hundreds of security personnel and Ronaldo's own paid team. And yet with all of that, he had ample time to pulverize the player before even drawing the weapon.

 

Lionel massages the bridge of his nose with a hefty sigh. _None of this should've even happened_ , he thinks.

 

He startles when Piqué's face hovers in front of his own. They said he's gonna be in there for a while, he says. He continues after Lionel nods, We were thinking about going.

The defender watches, dismayed, as he rises from his crouched position against the wall and brushes past him. His eyes track him as he removes his phone from his pocket to rest it against his ear.

 

Hello, Stegen answers.

 

Marc, you're not at the hospital, where are you, Lionel asks. Piqué's lips part as apprehension dawns. He saw it, too, then.

The hospital? I'm with Jordi right now, Stegen sounds lost. Lionel frowns before asking for Alba.

 

Jordi, where are you guys?

He can hear the defender sigh through the phone; Marc's a little shaken up after what went down. I drove him back to his place. How's Ronaldo?

 

_Oh_ , Lionel thinks. Of course it wasn't about some secret resentment toward Cristiano that Stegen just stood there. He was in shock. This whole situation must've rattled him.

 

Not good, he whispers. He's alive at least.

Lionel can hardly fathom that that's the silver lining of the day. The last bit of sunlight peeking through a smoky sky, like rays of hope screened by oily waters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was kind of hard to write because I wanted to give a different version without repeating anything too much. But I also thought some internal conflict could've provided some insight into the situation that seeing can't adequately cover, so. I hope you guys enjoyed it; it was fun to write. Sorry it was so short; the next chapter's longer, don't worry.
> 
> As usual, please share any feedback that pops into your lovely brains! Chapter three I'll post later today hopefully. Depends on the response I get ig.


	3. They Come From Above

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the first chapter was from Sergio's perspective; this one is Cristiano's version of what went down.

 

It's no big deal. Cristiano's been receiving threats like this for years; back when he was in Manchester. He doesn't need bodyguards with him wherever he goes. Especially not half a dozen. It's ridiculous. He's perfectly capable of driving his own son to school.

Nevertheless, here he is at Camp Nou with five security personnel flanking his every move. Emmanuel had requested he be with him at all times; he said nothing, however, about the other four suits.

Surprisingly enough (or not at all), he doesn't pay them any mind. His attention is focused only on one thing: winning.

There are thousands of people inside and millions more watching from their homes. Five among millions is not enough to break his composure.

 

So, he plays.

He runs out to the pitch and warms up with his team. He dribbles and makes plays and scores a goal. Two now. He just netted a free kick, and even by his standards, one of his best. The stadium falls silent, and his cheeks hurt from smiling so much. _Calma_ , he thinks.

Sergio is there, a hand on his shoulder, and Marcelo just jumped on his back; he's happy. But he needs more. A hattrick. That's what he wants.

His jaw sets as his teammates filter back onto the pitch. Cristiano brings the hem of his jersey up to wipe the grime from his forehead and notices his laces untied, lying like wilted flowers by his feet.

 

They come from above.

 

Hits rain down like hellfire, lightning scorching his sides and singeing his face. He's lost time, he knows it. He can't see anything, just flashes of blue and white. His shoulder flares as he struggles to his hands and knees. He doesn't get far when a particularly sharp stab at his back sends his chin to the turf. _What is going on?_

He can't hear past the ringing in his ears, and his heartbeat is slamming against his battered skull. He thinks someone might be bleeding because there's a drop of something that's definitely blood on the blade of grass in front of him. _Is it his?_ he wonders. He thinks so. He's having trouble looking at the red dot because his eyes keep drifting closed.

It takes him a few seconds to register when the blows have stopped, and he's no longer lying on his face. There's an arm around his neck; he blinks at it in confusion. His legs aren't working too well, and the appendage is digging into his windpipe. _God, his head hurts_ , he thinks with a grunt.

 

When he sluggishly manages to pull his gaze up, Sergio's there. He seems stressed.

 

Cristiano can feel the deep rumble of the person with the arm as they speak. He can tell they're talking, but everything sounds so static-y like their voices are steaming. Something cool presses against his temple, and forces his head sideways. It makes him feel nauseous. The stadium's spinning in his vision and Serge's face is red. Cristiano wonders if it's spinning for him too.

 

There's a loud crack of thunder, and the striker flinches. The arm is gone, and he finds himself back on the grass, which is starting to look more red than green. Then there are hands on his cheeks and brown eyes searching his own. _Hey, Sese's back_.

Cristiano tilts his head sideways to look at the man whose arm had been wrapped around his trachea and nearly chokes as he sees the blood falling through his fingers. When the forward locks eyes with the simmering ones across from him, the man speaks.

You have... humiliated Madrid, his voice sounds like sizzling coals, but Cristiano hears him excellently.

 

_And, what? Is that what all this was about? Is he really so much of a nuisance that the game couldn't continue? The game_ is _stopped, right? He wanted to score a hattrick_ , his thoughts flare up inside him, like a drought vacuuming away any faith. His eyes desperately dart around, trying to grasp onto something before his emotions devour him.

S'rge, he calls weakly.

 

His face hurts, and it's getting hard to breathe.

He can smell the blood now, potent and metallic. Everything's moving so fast, his eyes ache, and his stomach is rolling. White sparks surround him as stars try to blind him. Something is pushing against his chest, and he gasps as more bright suns scatter his vision. There's a pinch at his elbow. His arm flicks out immediately and connects with something hard. The lightning in the brown skies of his eyes is clouding over as his eyelids start to droop, and it's with a valiant stand that he sinks into the arms of unconsciousness.

 

It's hours later, after the tests and the scans, the poking and the prodding, that he wakes up. It's quiet except for the sharp monotonous beeping over his shoulder. He tries to open his eyes ( _Why is it so bright?_ ) and frowns when his left one doesn't open. His frown deepens when he goes to touch it with his right hand only to make his shoulder throb in irritation. There's a sling on his arm.

He reaches his left hand up instead. The brush of his fingertips against the swelled skin makes him flinch painfully into the pillows behind him. Hospital pillows ( _What is he doing in a hospital?_ ), he notes as he scans the rest of the room. No visitors it seems.

 

He doesn't get to brood for long before the door slips open and in walks Sergio and Iker, a doctor lingering in the doorway. Cristiano notices his teammates' hesitation and winces. _What did he do, now?_

_You're_ supposed to be sleeping, the doctor scolds not unkindly.  _They're mad at him for not sleeping?_ Cristiano locks eyes with Sergio, and the captain does look rather upset, so perhaps.

Sergio turns away from the doctor confused before he locks eyes with Cristiano's. The captain looks troubled, and Cristiano can't help but wonder what he might've done to earn such a look.

His gaze snaps over to Iker when the man suddenly advances toward him, murmuring softly all the while, Hey, Cris. How're you feeling?

 

The injured player's eyebrows furrow as he tries to blink back exhaustion to look at his fellow teammate. Um... I... I don't... his voice sounds strained. What happened, he asks.

 

He doesn't miss the look they share.

 

He watches concerned as Iker walks over to the sink to fill a cup with water. When his worried gaze turns back to Sergio, the defender just watches him unhappily. _Something serious must've happened for them to react like this_ , Cristiano thinks. He hopes he didn't get another red card, but something tells him that it's much more pressing than that.

A plastic cup of water is held in front of his nose, and he gently reaches up to drink from it. His bottom lip smarts when he brings the cup to his mouth, but the soothing water instantly quells the burning in his throat. He hands the cup back to Iker with a thankful glance.

 

You were attacked on the pitch, Sergio blurts unexpectedly. Cristiano startles.

 

The wounded player's eyebrows furrow as he tries to remember. He hisses when he unconsciously bites his split lip. The taste of his own blood causes memories to rupture as if from a volcano, their ashy falls leaving trails of fire all the way down to his stomach. He's going to throw up.

 

The acidic memories rise up like an inferno as if they had fused together to form this divine god whose desire exists to incinerate all but wickedness. The numerous stitches spread across his back stretch painfully with each heave and his eyes start to tear up from the way his bruised muscles stiffen over broken ribs. There have been several times where Cristiano's likened the pitch to a battlefield, but the analogy had never been so literal before. He hears the clap of what he initially thought was thunder but later turned out to be a gunshot. He feels the way the noose-like arm slipped from around his neck, casting him back down to the blood-red shards of grass; red like the spitting tongues of Hell, their eternal judgment licking across his skin.

 

His breaths leave him in shaky exhalations as his teammates help him lay back down. I-I remember now, he whispers.

 

He remembers the man with his seething brown eyes and his fiery words saying he humiliated his team, his fans, the world.

I'm a disgrace, he chokes over his emotions.

 

At first, when his captain pulls him into his arms, he resists with the memory of that man's thick arm wrapped around his throat. But then there's a warm hand on the back of his head and combing through his messy curls, and the tears finally spill over. His muscles ache with the need to hold back his anguish, and he must be shaking with the effort because Sergio shushes him. Cristiano tries to sound offended but can't quite manage it through the tears. Besides, his friend's still speaking.

You're not a disgrace, Cris, he says. Real Madrid is so blessed to have you.

 

But he is, he thinks and bites back a sob. I don't... deserve you, he gasps through breaths. He sniffles as Sergio pulls away from him.

_This is it_ , Cristiano thinks. _He's off the team; his best friend's gonna tell him he's too big of a liability, Madrid can't afford any more bad press_. The striker's head pounds tortuously, and he feels like he might throw up again. He feels like he's burning up; he must have a fever because it doesn't feel nice.

But then Sergio's whispering with such intensity, he can only believe him. You deserve more than me, he breathes. So much more.

And it's such a relief compared to what he was expecting (and secretly still is) that the muscles in his face throb from the fresh onslaught of tears.

 

And it's in Sergio's safe embrace that Cristiano forgets everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is. That's the last recount of the night's events (sorta). Next is the aftermath.
> 
> I don't know why I bring my favorite people pain. It's like "you must suffer so I can feel good," and that almost makes it worse lol
> 
> poor cris
> 
> (Feedback? :))


	4. A Flame Fanned by the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doctors aren't quite finished with poor Cris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of the recovery process; it's a doozy

Cristiano groggily blinks awake and immediately wishes he hasn't.

 

He scopes out the room around him, heart pounding as he tells himself repeatedly that the nightmare wasn't real—that he didn't almost die in one of the places he felt safest.

 

Blinding white light surrounds his peripheral causing his stomach to turn on itself like a tortured snake. There's a shrill monotonous beeping over his shoulder, sending waves of pain slicing from his temples to his chest, his right shoulder throbbing in distress. Everything's burning as if a liquid fire had been poured down his throat and his mouth had been sewed shut. His head, lungs, chest, ribs, everything. It's almost too much.

He opens his mouth in a groan, but all that escapes is a dry whisper. The Portuguese shuts his eyes before he tries to sit up, sending the heart monitor into a frenzy.

 

Something lightly pulls on his left hand, and he realizes he's been holding whatever it is this entire time. Both eyes snap to the source—his left eye is still bruised, but the swelling has reduced since then to the point where he can now see out of it. His jaw nearly drops, and his eyes widen when they land on none other than Sergio Ramos.

The captain watches with concerned brown eyes while his pale hand (the one not holding Cristiano's) delicately pushes on the forward's left shoulder (the one without the sling) so he's lying down again. He smiles tenderly at the downed player while Cristiano merely gapes up at him.

What are you still doing here, he asks. And it's an honest question; he thought everyone would be gone by now.

 

He frowns at the hurt that flashes in the defender's coffee-colored eyes. Sergio clears his throat and sinks back in his chair. You're welcome, he replies and cringes because he should _not_ have said that.

Panic flares in the captain's chest when he sees Cristiano's defensive walls drop down like shields as he withdraws his hand away from his.

No, wait- I'm sorry, he stumbles through an apology. Look, I didn't mean it like that, I'm just w-

 

The striker interrupts him before he can make a fool of himself further than he already has. It's okay, he says.

 

Sergio nods unconvinced as Cristiano turns away from him to scowl at the door.

_Great_ , the Spaniard thinks. _Cris just woke up and is already feeling like shit; then he has to go and make it worse._

 

Your mom and Cristiano should be here within the hour; Iker called her yesterday, Sergio announces as a means of peace. Of course, with his luck, it has the opposite effect. Cristiano's eyes widen to saucers, and it almost looks like he chokes on air before turning to face him with a pained expression that does not hurt Sergio, too. _It doesn't._

 

_No_ , the Portuguese gasps. No, they can't see me like this. Please, Sese. _Please_ , they can't. Tell her to take Junior home.

The defender smiles sympathetically taking hold of his hand once again. Cris, he says. I think your mom should be here. She's worried about you. And I'm sure Cristiano wants to see his father, too.

The striker shakes his head vehemently, then closes his eyes in a wince that Sergio feels in his bones.

They can't see, he struggles through breaths.

 

The captain goes to try to convince him some more before his friend opens his eyes again. His chest clenches painfully as fat tears run down Cristiano's cheeks. Okay, okay, I'll tell her, Sergio mutters while wiping the wetness from the wounded player's damaged face.

Cristiano watches him for a minute longer, and he has to fight against the urge to fidget under his piercing stare. Seemingly convinced, Ronaldo relaxes back into the pillows. Or that's what it would seem to the untrained eye, but Sergio can see the tense set to his shoulders and the way his eyes flick over the door.

He's visibly uncomfortable, and Sergio doesn't know how to approach the situation, so he stands to leave. He sighs and says: I'll just go call-

 

He looks down with wide eyes when Cristiano squeezes his hand tightly, keeping him rooted to his side. His eyes are staring anxiously at the sheets fisted in the hand that isn't holding Sergio's. He avoids the defender's eyes and continues to gnaw at his swollen lip. _That's never going to heal at this rate_ , he thinks.

 

Stay, Cristiano whispers.

 

Sergio can see the inner turmoil churning in the man's tortured eyes as he doesn't want to appear vulnerable but desperately seeks comfort. _Or maybe just a distraction_ , Sergio thinks bitterly. Anything to take away the haunting memories of the previous night's assault.

He immediately sits back down, a little too quickly in his opinion, and smiles warmly at his friend. Cristiano watches slightly exasperated, yet amused, as his teammate all but falls back into the chair. _The forward's got him wrapped around his finger_ , Sergio ponders in resignation.

 

Do you want me to text Iker to call your mom? Sergio inquires. When the injured player nods hesitantly and refuses to loosen his hold on Sergio's fingers, the captain then proceeds to pull out his phone one-handed and type out a message to Iker. He uses this as an excuse to not look in his friend's big dark eyes. Witnessing Cristiano so helpless and small doesn't sit right with him. It's all wrong. Cris has always been the stronger of the two. He doesn't know how to deal with this new, breakable Cris.

 

I want to leave, Sese.

 

Sergio almost jumps out of his skin when he first hears the fragile whisper. Cristiano's liquid brown orbs stare back at him in trepidation, almost as if he expects to be yelled at and isn't that just heartbreaking in itself. With his lip quivering and breathing labored, he looks as if he's about to pass out. Sergio releases his hand to hold the Portuguese's face instead, fixing him with a look of absolute composure. Breathe, Cris, he tells him. I'm here, now breathe.

He only lets go of the forward's face after he receives a shaky nod from the player and his breaths have evened out. Even then, he recaptures the man's hand in his own and, after a moment of contemplation, gingerly caresses the edge of Cristiano's jaw with their intertwined knuckles.

 

You can't leave, Cris. You've got a traumatic brain injury; you might need surgery. Sergio's voice cracks as he says the words and he sees the moment Ronaldo understands because his expression quickly turns into one of alarm. Sergio is quick to reassure him.

It's alright; you're gonna be okay. It's just a small blood clot between your brain and your skull. Doc said it looks like you don't even _need_ surgery, but we have to stay a few days so they can keep an eye on it.

 

He patiently watches as Ronaldo squints blearily up at him. When his friend continues to scan his face attentively, he gets worried.

What, he asks.

The striker shrugs and looks back down at the blankets covering his legs. You said we, he mutters.

 

Sergio blinks, shocked.

 

You said " _we_ have to stay a few days," Cristiano explains dubiously. You don't have to stay with me.

With each word that leaves his friend's mouth, Sergio can feel his cheeks heating up.

 

Yeah, well, I mean… I wasn't... You don't-... _"have anyone else"_ was left unsaid and they both know it. How can he when he pushes away his only family?

 

The captain fondly huffs when he spots the slight smile curling the corners of the Portuguese's mouth. The smile vanishes just as quickly as it appeared, however, and once again reminds Sergio of their circumstances.

 

Do you want me to call the doctor in so he can explain it to you in greater detail?

 

Cristiano nods shyly, and Sergio presses the button on the remote sitting by the player's hip.

 

Seconds after the notification is sent, a nurse clothed in puppy scrubs walks in with a friendly smile and after Sergio asks for Dr. Perez, walks back out. Moments later, a man in a white coat, who Cristiano can only assume must be Dr. Perez, strides in with a professional nod toward the two footballers. Gentlemen, he says.

Then he focuses in on the battered Portuguese and sticks out his hand. I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Mr. Ronaldo, he says. I'm Dr. Perez; it's a pleasure to meet you finally. My son's a _huge_ fan.

 

_The doctor's also a huge fan himself it seems_ , Sergio muses as he observes the once-composed professional. Dr. Perez now grins down at CR7 like the proper fanboy he is, and Sergio has a hard time keeping a straight face. Cristiano, for his part, just shakes the doctor's hand with something akin to disbelief. Sergio frowns.

With the abundance of fans that have approached the player before, he's never looked at any of them like he isn't worth it.

 

Clearing his throat, the Spaniard questions: Dr. Perez, would you mind explaining to Cristiano what you told me?

 

His inquiry charges the room with electric tensity that seems to sap the excitement from the doctor's very follicles.

Sergio almost feels sorry, up until he remembers when the doctors told him they wanted to keep Cristiano overnight to monitor his concussion. They were concerned by both its severity and the symptoms he's been showing. When the defender had asked, all they said was: "He seems alright now, but brain injuries can be unpredictable."

 

And so the doctor inclines his head and takes a seat on Ronaldo's other side, clipboard in hand. Right, he says.

As you might know, Mr. Ronaldo, you were admitted here with a severe concussion. That was twenty-one hours ago. We took you back for a CT scan to look for extensive brain damage and found none. Now, there are two different methods we use to measure brain injury; the Computerized Tomography scanning, which is faster and more readily available, and the Magnetic Resonance Imaging, which takes longer, but is more accurate. Are you with me so far?

 

There's a ball of dread sunk in Cristiano's gut like an anchor, but he nods anyway.

So, you missed something? he rasps. It feels like there's a cotton ball lodged in his throat.

 

Dr. Perez leans back in his chair with a sigh before continuing.

Unfortunately, yes. The symptoms weren't worsening, and your vitals still show no signs of deterioration. In an attempt to narrow down what might've been wrong, we took you back for an MRI. I'm afraid you are suffering from an acute subdural hematoma, which is a blood clot outside the brain. Fortunately, it's moderately slow-growing and small, so it doesn't look like surgical drainage is necessary at the moment. However, I do want to keep you for observation in case it will be; I imagine at least two more days, possibly more.

 

The other shoe drops and Cristiano thinks he might be sick ( _again_ ). The blood drains from his face.  _Surgical drainage?_ he thinks. Dr. Perez puts a supportive hand on his shoulder as he blinks back tears. I'm sorry this happened to you, he whispers and leaves the room with his head ducked.

 

Cristiano's heart is hammering in his chest, and the overhead lights scald his retinas. Sergio is uncharacteristically mute beside him, and when he turns to look at him, he notices how poised his teammate appears. The backs of his eyes get hot when Sergio brushes his lips lovingly against the forward's fingers and says: I'm right here, Cris.

 

Cristiano would be lying if he said he wasn't overwhelmed.

 

He doesn't know what to think. There's blood in his head that shouldn't be there, and his best friend won't leave his side even though he's still in his nasty kit from ( _what did the doctor say? Twenty-something hours ago?_ ) yesterday. And he doesn't think he'll ever forget the raging brown eyes and the sharp cutting words. Their caustic linguae is lapping at the shores of his thoughts as if the Lake of Fire itself were trying to swallow him whole. Trying to drag him under into Hell's unquenchable abyss. He can feel the beginnings of a panic attack clawing at his lungs. Its crooked talons penetrating his armored walls and leaving him bare and exposed.

 

_YouhumiliatedMadridyouhumiliatedMadridyouhumiliatedeveryone..._

 

It's through sheer willpower that he surfaces the dark clutches enough to register that Sergio is in front of him. Sergio, with his wide copper-colored eyes, and his hands are on his cheeks and he's saying something. _What is he saying?_ Cristiano can't concentrate over the hammering in his skull, the rhythmic beat in time with the pulsing behind his eyes. And that damn beeping, he swears if he were able to move his right arm right now, he'd be fucking throwing that thing out the window.

 

_Cris_... Cristiano... Hey, you're okay.

 

Sergio's rumbling voice seeps through the fissures in his psyche like cement, adhering him together.

 

I'm here, Cris. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you. I won't let that happen, he says.

 

Cristiano's quivering as if a flame fanned by the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How sick is it that I had fun writing this? hehehe shut up you had fun reading it didn't you
> 
> I tried to portray cris as vulnerable, yet still have him be himself. Later on, I might make the psychological effects increase with time, and have him become slightly more dependent upon Sergio. It's cool to think of all the different possibilities I can explore.
> 
> Anyway, let me know how you feel about this one.
> 
> P.S. it's probably gonna be a little while before I can upload another chapter; class starts back up monday ugh (applied ethics here i come lol)


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